


Healing Him

by chevyimpala967



Category: Supernatural
Genre: #alternate universe, #dean winchester, #mental institution au, #supernatural - Freeform, #tumblr-headcanon, #x reader, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 16:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chevyimpala967/pseuds/chevyimpala967
Summary: Y/N likes to think of herself as just a halfway 'normal' nurse who works at the town's bad-famed mental institution. But one day, she gets assigned a particularly interesting patient, and things may turn out to be even more complex than what she might've imagined, seeing as the line between reality and delusion is ever so thin and changing everyday...





	

**Chapter One**

* * *

 

 _Five years_. Five frigging years, that was how long you had had to deal with the rising facade of the pearly white hospital building eerily rising into your view, all of a sudden flashing right into the corner of your eyes, from right in front of your old Mustang’s creaking windowpane, making a sudden rush of chills creep their way up and down your spine, as if some invisible magic fingers were coldly working their way over your naked skin, and not in the pleasant way, either. It was just like the flash of an omen, somehow you have never truly been quite at peace with the looks of it, the way a pile of dusty, hundred-year-old iron-made benches were just scattered all over a small, minuscule, miserable little park that pitched up right by the entrance of the hospital, as if vainly trying to break that whole rapscallion look of a modern-day dungeon, although failing rather excessively, since the new accessory additions did nothing less but enhance the gloomy atmosphere that surrounded the land, wrapping it in an asphyxiation death bubble, that sucked all of the happiness out of anybody who dared step foot in, just like a Dementor, or something similar. Everybody except you, that was.

Maybe it gave you the tingles, sometimes, but it was never enough to make you as terrified as to never wind up in the same spot again. Somehow, somewhen you couldn’t even quite recall, you had grown some sort of steel immunity to the graveness of it all, and it didn’t seem to affect you anymore. Perhaps it was a courtesy of all the time you had spent there, down the same highway lane, prepping yourself up for another day in the bleached belly of the insane beast, convincing your brain to hold on and not give up just jet, for better days were yet to come. And of course, that hadn’t gone undetected by the doctors, either.

  
It had been a calm, undisturbed morning, and you were quietly slurping your cold coffee into one of the back rooms, blinking bored as you heard some echoing, muffled screams bleed and seep through one of the endless doors of the hallway. But that was just one more casualty of the day. This was a mental hospital, after all. And after so much time spent on doing the same routine job over and over, you had begun to grow used and accustomed to all of the perks and quirks of the deal. So you ignored the grotesque, guttural sounds spurting out of the room, and just enjoyed what little peace you could collect from whatever was left of your curt break time, before you’d have to go do a bit of room service to those ‘special’ patients, as you called them, who were basically the guys with way too many issues to show up at the collective cafeteria, and needed an extra treatment, which you, of course, had no trouble giving them. That was exactly the moment when, even though it was to your abrupt bemusement, one of the most grumpy, elderly nurses you’d ever met your entire life came barging through the door, her horridious, pointy-ass beige shoes clicking a mile a minute, sounding as atrocious as the scrape of a bunch of nails against the blackboard, as you grimaced in mild disgust and displeasure, before straightening up and forcing your lips to stretch out into the fakest smile you could muster, but it wasn’t as if anybody could be able to notice, anyways. After all, what more was this place, than just a plastic, sterile dollhouse of insanity, where you all were nothing more but temporary puppets, mingling between the sane and the insane just for a little bit, before violently being thrashed back outside, into the real world, again. Because, frankly, between the mad-driven murmurs of feverish loonies, and the drooling draws of lost causes and lost minds, it was beginning to become a bit difficult to define reality from imagination, but you still stood your ground and didn’t pay much attention to the way it all collided and combined with one another, since, after all, what was better than getting the best of both words, right? “How may I help you, Mrs. Keltner?” You mimicked, in the most sarcastically posh voice you could manage, neatly folding your hands over your lap, as you pushed your now empty plastic cup of coffee away with your elbow, tilting your head to the side and offering the woman the sweetest, most poison-dripping smile you could manage through your nearly-splitting lips, that hard were you grimacing. The woman’s rosy-cheeked, ‘too-much-poweder-oops’-shaded, pudgy face turned towards you, before her eyes landed on your huge-sized coffee cup, a sneer of disapproval visible on her face, as if she wished that at the time being she possessed the same laser eye qualities Superman’s orbs did, so she could basically just melt through that disgrace of a beverage that ever so rudely sat just right there on the table. “Attikol wants to catch a word with ya, cupcake. And do ya know, that more than three cups o'coffee a day can kill ya?” She commented, using that oddly high-pitched, extremely nasal southern drawl of hers, which you had always pictured as the one detail which basically drew the thin line between actual patriotism, and patronization, making you despise her even more. “Did he happen to give you any other hints on what he wanted me for?” You calmly asked, not even making the slightest effort to step up from your spot, as you watched the translucent sun rays pouring down from the window nearby, despite the fact that the wall itself was narrowly lodged between a couple of unhelpfully moldy metallic bar, resembling nothing else but the miserable cracks on a jail cell, but then again, that was the outlook of every single window around here, anyways, as if the whole place itself was specifically designed to resemble a madness-containing marble box, a moderate prison for whacko nutjobs, gifting society with the comforting illusion of isolation from insanity, even though you figured nobody was probably stupid enough to believe the fact that a couple of plain-painted high walls, and some slammed-shut doors were enough to keep the contagious craziness in. Funny. “Well, ain’t ‘zactly like we’re on a first name basis, sweetheart. If you’re darn dyin’ to know, why don’t you move that lousy tush of yours and go find out, eh?” You rolled your eyes at that riddlish kind of a statement, figuring out there was basically no point in actually bothering to decipher the rest of her words, which would only result into well-known bullcrap, when you already got the core gist of the sentence. You sat up, stuffing your hands in the pockets of your long white coat, and on second thought, came up with the idea of actually letting your half-empty coffee cup still there on a table, so Mrs.Keltner could have a death-match glaring contest versus it while you were gone, or something. You tried to drown out the loud, echoing sound of your footsteps against the stone-cold floor of the corridor, as your feet collided with the plain white tiles beneath, making it seem as if you were the only human being left in the entire building, which was probably halfway true, anyways. Mental institutions were always portrayed as the lowlife of most medical hospitals, and that just so happened to involve the staff, as well. But your boss was probably the most reliable person around. You were basically close colleagues, and you had more respect for him than you had had for anybody around here, and that was saying a lot. Besides, you were probably the most devoted nurse to ever roam these halls, despite the fact that you were always modest about it, and that was exactly why he regularly assigned you various chores and such, thinking that you were maybe experienced enough to handle responsibilities, such as dealing with the burocracy of the business, for one, filling out numerous papers and arranging folders, the whole ordeal, and sometimes even helping out in random therapy sessions, when he felt like it. Even though you weren’t actually expecting anything along a promotion or anything, not even bothering to be that hopeful about something that wouldn’t improve the situation of your job the slightest, you wondered what in the hell it was that he asked of you this time. Once you actually reached the door leading to his office, you felt your pale, nearly itching with anticipation, knuckles knocking against the wood, before a deep voice seeped out from inside the room, ordering for you to come in. You had no idea how, but the way it was worded out made some tingles run down your spine, some sort of gutturally instinctive sense of urgency swelling up inside your chest and stomach, as you quickly stepped in, conveniently taking a seat on the chair facing opposite of his neatly arranged desk, watching as the middle-aged doctor took off his silver-rimmed glasses, skimming a hand through whatever was left of his light gray tuft of hair, probably playing this little trick on his vision so that he could focus on you more clearly, or perhaps stare deeper into your soul, who knew. “Ah. Nurse Y/L/N. So considerate of you to come by ‘right away’.” He murmured sarcastically, making you feel utterly annoyed and now wishing that someone had notified you to bring a list of actually good comebacks along prior to this, since a rough sass-session version one another seemed to be the right way to hit off the conversation, according to your 'beloved boss’. “Let me take an educated guess, chugging coffee in the back room?” He continued on, and you couldn’t help but be a little bewildered of the accuracy of his statement, even though absolutely no sign of that showed on your resting bitchface, as your hands rested on your lap, while you were thinking up something clever enough in response to his snark comments. You had been in his office one too many times to feel uncomfortable, by now, and besides, it hadn’t been in that whole 'whoops-third-time-seeing-the-principal’ kind of a way, but merely a practical visit to a place where you could undisturbingly do your job, and even receive some professional advice, once in a while, because sometimes you just so happened to go extremely batshit tired of people such as Mrs.Keltner or her substitute doppelgangers. “Well, everybody has their own hobbies. Better kill your time than kill your mind, right?” You replied, calmly staring at Attikol’s other hand, as those skinny, bony fingers of his rested upon the eerily black cover of one of the folders that sat right on the table top, and it made you feel uncomfortable, how much you wanted to know what was actually inside of it. Maybe this was like your very own modern day, 21st Century adaptive Pandora’s box. And maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the reason why you were called here, this once. It was the least to say you were both intrigued, and a bit reluctant, as well, since you knew the saying that 'curiosity killed the cat’, even if it might be a slightly scaredy cat, such as your own self at the time being. “Right, killing your mind. Exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today, will have to thank you in retrospect later on, for bringing it up.” He mouthed, stopping his mindless fidgetting right away, as he glanced right back at you again, those pale gray eyes of his nearly perceiving holes into your face, that intent his gaze usually was. “I would like for you to help me supervise a certain patient, Y/L/N. What do you say?” He then added, and you basically felt your stomach twist and turn with crippling anxiousness and expectation, before you hastily spoke up again, as if trying to urge him to spill out more of his beans and bullcrap already. “Sure, why not. Are you actually going to tell me who this one is, though, or are we gonna have to play lunatic Russian roulette until I actually get a lucky guess? You know I don’t like surprises, Attikol.” You murmured, before adding an awkward, impish little laugh, as if it was pointedly supposed to make this sentence sound less harsh than it already did, whilst you sat up a bit straighter, vaguely trying to take a better sneak peek at the dark folder, all the thoughts in your mind clouding as you were trying to ponder on the possibilities, even though you were most definitely unsure if you actually wanted to know what was inside there, or not. And there was one more thing you were highly uncertain of, such as the fact that you had ever so blindly accepted this sort of a challenge right away, even though the mention of somebody who needed special treatment in these kind of circumstances would have been good enough to send off red flags for any normal person on their right minds. But then again, it was far too late to actually still believe you still were a part of that lovely kind of labeling now, wasn’t it? “It wouldn’t even take a fool much time to figure it out. But here, go nuts. Although not too literally, since that wouldn’t help our case much more.” He offered his typically sly, thin-lipped little smirk, which made his skin wrinkle all up, resembling an old paint job being peeled off from a millennial wall in all abandoned house or something, and it didn’t do much to comfort you, anyways. But that was the exact same moment when he actually picked up that one black folder you had had your eyes on throughout the entire conversation, and pushed it in your direction, rotating it so you could read it the right way, whilst your fingers instantly worked their way into opening. Once you were done with the short, yet mildly pestering process, the first thing your eyes landed on was Attikol’s familiar handwriting, spelling out two scribbled words at the top of the yellowish page, and you instantly recognized that as the name of the person who would soon enough result to be the center of your attention for the oncoming days. You stared at those two words for a little bit, until the name actually began clicking sense into your brain, and that was when you heard it, loud and clear inside your head. Dean Winchester.


End file.
